I’ve always adored orchids.

Growing up as I did the daughter of florists, I saw hundreds of orchids every year. Mostly nestled into sparkly corsage boxes ready for some clumsy guy to pin onto his date. They were also big at Mother’s Day, back when dutiful children took Mom out for Sunday dinner all gussied up with a huge cattleya attached to her chest. Then of course there were the various white orchids wired into showy bridal bouquets.

They were expensive and fragile and I was NOT allowed to touch them. Period.

I remember going down to the wholesale flower market with my father very early in the mornings and seeing the giant boxes of orchids fresh off the plane from Hawaii. I wanted them all. I was well used to carnations and daisies, roses and mums; I needed more exotic visual thrills. Best of all, many orchids came in shades of purple—always my favorite color.

As an adult, I read a bit about orchids, met a few orchid fanciers and concluded that I’d need a greenhouse and a bankroll to play with these beloved plants. Having neither, I never invested in a single orchid. They were so expensive, and I figured I’d never be able to keep one alive, so I never tried.

Then last fall as I neared a milestone birthday, I decided to splurge and bought myself my first ever orchid. Then someone who didn’t even know of my passion gave me another one for my birthday. Those two thrived, and so I dared to buy another, then another. And guess what—either they are now far easier to grow than they used to be—or else I have a knack for them. Because my phalaenopsis quartet (below) is doing fabulously well. Okay, one of them is idling at the moment, but since my others are all into their second blooming cycles, I’m optimistic about that one, too.

Now I’ll be quick to say that a true orchid devotee would laugh at my little collection, for they have no rare pedigrees—they came from my local grocery store. But that doesn’t diminish my joy in them. I’ve already learned several good lessons from my orchids. You need patience to watch one bloom. It can take weeks or months for a bud to actually open, and while you’re waiting all you’ve got are some bumpy twigs. I’m someone who thinks delayed gratification is an oxymoron, so this has been good for me. Now I can inspect the buds and appreciate each subtle shift in color, how they become almost transparent so I can see the veins and spots starting to form.

Then I realized that it’s never to late to revive a dormant passion. I rarely drink alcohol, never did recreational drugs, have only been addicted to sugar and bad carbs, but I can see how I could become addicted to collecting orchids. A quick spin around the Internet was enough to get me hooked. Perhaps one day I’ll have a greenhouse and can really indulge my love of these spectacular beings. In the meantime, I’ll fill up my windowsills with orchids—and I’ll touch them every day, caressing the buds and whispering sweet words of encouragement.

Even if they come from Safeway, there are no ordinary orchids.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• Have you waited to pursue a passion?
• What’s stopping you from going after it?
• What tests—and teaches—you patience?
• What joy have you denied yourself?

Admire other plant allies here.